Stories
by TASHAx
Summary: She loves to write, he loves to read. Ginny Weasley is an aspiring author and fate seems to be throwing her a plot twist, she never saw coming, in the form of Draco Malfoy.


_Stories about heroes_

_Who overcame their deepest sorrows_

_They'll put hope into his heart again_

_To cherish everyday_

_He'll find a better world_

_And the strength to face tomorrow_

_I'm sure that when he knows the way_

_He'll want to stay…_

— Beauty and the Beast's Enchanted Christmas

**The beginning**

Draco Malfoy had always loved to read. From the minute he learnt to string together a sentence he was hooked. Growing up an only child in the vast, imposing, Malfoy Manor he had often escaped into the pages of stories and later started creating his own. He'd fought dragons and travelled to the depths of the ocean before has was even eleven years of age. Characters in his favourite books kept him company whilst his father was at work and his mother at a charity gala or afternoon tea.

Then, as he grew up, when things became more complicated, and life went from dull to terrifying, reading and writing in his notebooks became the only things which kept him sane. He was saddened to realise he no longer had much in common with the heroes in these narratives. Whilst never the most brave or courageous human, Draco, as a child had believed he would still save the day if he needed to; maybe not by running in swinging a sword but he'd think of a plan. He'd know that, ultimately, he was good.

Later, once the terror had subsided, and the healing of the Wizarding world began Draco returned to his books not just for escape but for pleasure. When he moved from the Manor, because try as he might he could not exorcise the demons in those walls, he bought himself a flat with floor to ceiling bookshelves and large windows to let as much light and air in as possible. He wanted to read and breathe. He hoped, after that, everything else would fall into place eventually.

When he attended the mandatory, Ministry enforced, psycho-healing sessions that had recommended for rehabilitation, his Head Healer had encouraged Draco to write everything down; all that he'd felt and seen and done. And, although he didn't want to admit it, it did seem to help. As words poured onto the page he felt himself begin to feel lighter, less burdened. He started to sleep again, started to heal.

—

Ginny came to books much later than Draco had. She'd always loved her parents, and older brothers, reading to her at bedtime when she was a child but she didn't begin devouring books until she was twelve. After her first year at Hogwarts, after Tom Riddle had succeeded in possessing her body and mind, Ginny found the only way she could stop thinking about it, stop fixating on it, was being lost in the pages of a book.

She could wander through time and distant lands from her bed at The Burrow or an armchair in the Gryffindor common room. She could read about other people who fought to be saved and who had perhaps done things they weren't proud of but learnt to forgive themselves anyway. In some strange way books, fiction, helped her survive in the real world. A port in an, all too real, storm which allowed her to collect her thoughts and process experiences.

She'd gone back to Hogwarts - after the war was over - and achieved her NEWTs. She'd done well and could have taken her pick of many careers but Ginny moved herself to Dent in Yorkshire. It was a small village, with only 400 people living there, most of whom were muggle. She lived in a small stone cottage, with thick walls, wonky windows and a beautiful view of rolling green hills. She bought an old wooden desk from a local charity shop and had the delivery men plonk it in front the window with the best view. Ginny Weasley meant to be a writer and she was trying to inspire herself as much as possible.

—

And, despite isolating themselves a little, both were certain it was impossible to be lonely with a stack of books by your side. There were lives to be lived, characters to befriend and comfort to be taken amongst those pages.

—

_"There's always room for a story that can transport people to another place." _

_\- J.K. Rowling_

**The middle**

Ginny was awoken, as usual, by the chiming of the bells from the church across the road from her cottage. She made her coffee, took a shower and pulled on her cosiest jumper to try and battle away the autumnal chill which had swept over the little village in the past couple of weeks.

She had lived here for nearly eight months now and she was becoming familiar with most of the prominent locals (the nosey old ladies, the shop keeper, the constantly harassed looking woman who ran the tearoom, the archaic old gent who walked his little Jack Russell twice a day come rain or shine). It was a nice life; Ginny had gotten a job at a small Wizarding bookshop in York, she apparated down to the Burrow every Sunday for dinner with her parents and brothers and she was desperately trying to write something - important, significant, inspired - every single day.

It didn't matter what she wrote, she just knew she needed to feel her fingers fly across her typewriter or grip her quill. She tried to write in the mornings as evenings were reserved for reading and for sitting in The George and Dragon with the rest of the locals, sipping red wine, and watching all manner of life unfold before her. People initially assumed she was a tourist and then thought perhaps she was just there for the spring/summer months but October was rolling in and Ginny was showing no signs of leaving.

She had learnt to drive — something Arthur Weasley could barely contain his excitement over — and had bought herself a rundown old banger of a car. Ginny quickly realised the muggles found it peculiar she could survive in such a remote place with naught but her bike and walking shoes so she had thought she was best to try and blend in. In the beginning, she had been terrified of the muggle car contraptions but soon found she actually liked driving around (once she'd placed a few, well measured, safety charms on the vehicle).

She glanced at her watch and saw it was almost time to go: she brushed her long red hair, applied a little make-up and stood back to survey the effect in her bedroom mirror. It would do. Ginny was very tall - almost six foot - and lean. Her summer tan had long faded and the freckles across her nose stood out, in almost stark contrast, against her pale skin.

It was a pretty exciting day for Ginevra Weasley as she was due to attend a writers retreat in a beautiful old stately home, Acorn Bank. She had signed up six months ago: It was a magical writing course and when Ginny had seen it advertised in the back of the Daily Prophet she knew she had to go. She had never really been offered any kind of formal training, or help at all, with her writing and she didn't really know if she was even any good at it. She had imagination, and determination, but no real idea of her talents. Her family praised her highly but if she was going to be published, if she was going to make a career of this, she had to know what standard she was at.

Most people stayed at the retreat overnight but Ginny hadn't been able to afford that option so had instead chosen to apparate in every morning for the next three days. The retreat programme was full of tutorials, readings and Q&As. Publishing professionals would be there to try and find the next big thing, the next gripping novel, the next Golden Quill prize winner. She sometimes let herself imagine that; people buying copies of her book, signing the pages for her fans and running up on stage to collect her trophy. She wanted to stand tall and proud and say I did it. I survived, I lived, I won. Or, at the very least, she'd like to show her parent that their faith in her was justified. They'd thought she was mad moving herself miles away from family and choosing a career that was so precarious when with her NEWTs results she could have gone on to be an Auror or a Healer. But, they loved their daughter, they trusted her judgement and they encouraged her every step of the way.

With one last, determined, look in the mirror Ginny left her room, scooped her bag (full of parchment, quills, her notebook and several excerpts of ideas she was currently working on) and disapparated.

—

Acorn Bank was beautiful. It was a large, seventeenth century, red sandstone house with enormous walled gardens full of herbs and wildflowers. Muggles could come visit the gardens but were only allowed into three rooms in the house. The other rooms were reserved for the Wizarding community.

Apparently, the two siblings that had inherited the house had chosen to split it this way as one of them was a witch and one was a squib. Both had wanted magical and non-magical people alike to experience the wonderful home. Whilst muggles saw herbs and flowers for cooking and admiring, witches and wizards saw rare and exciting potion ingredients.

Ginny began walking up towards the house, she could see a squat old woman with enormous nest-like hair and a tall blond man wearing a smart, grey coat. She was nodding sagely as he spoke. They looked up at her as Ginny got closer and she felt herself double-take. Draco Malfoy.

What in the name of Merlin and Circe was Draco Malfoy doing here?

He was taller, slimmer, quieter than when she'd last known him but it was definitely him. He looked just as surprised to see her but quickly regained his poise.

"Are you here for the writers retreat, my dear?" the old lady asked, "I'm Eleanor Bright and I run things around here!"

Ginny peeled her large blue eyes away from Draco, "yes, yes, I'm Ginny Weasley. I'm here to write…and learn and…yes, I'm here for the retreat."

A blush bloomed across her cheeks but Eleanor smiled kindly.

"It's lovely to meet you, Ginny. This is Draco Malfoy."

He stuck out his hand for her to shake as if they hadn't known of one another for most of their lives. As if he hadn't sparred with her brothers, Harry and Hermione on a daily basis for six years at Hogwarts. As if he hadn't been on the opposite lines of the battle field only a couple of years ago.

She shook his hand. It was smooth and cold.

"Go up to the house, dear, Aggy is waiting to get everyone settled in. The welcome breakfast begins in ten minutes!"

Slightly dazed Ginny nodded and proceed in the direction of the house. Her excitement seemed to shrivel a little and she felt sick, her stomach full of lead. She shared so little of her writing process with people she knew and now she was likely to have to expose herself in front of Draco sodding Malfoy.

The anticipation for the day ahead had turned to anxiety in haze of white blond hair and grey eyes.

—

Surprise was definitely an understatement: Draco Malfoy could have named you at least one hundred people he may have thought he'd see today and Ginny Weasley wouldn't have been close to being one of them. Granted he knew nothing about the girl but he just didn't expect to ever see a Weasley at something like this. Something expensive, something almost frivolous, something that definitely wasn't necessary. By her lack of luggage he assumed she wasn't staying the house for the duration of the course but the day passes alone would have set her back a lot.

He would know, he set the pricing.

Draco had seen that muggles often held retreats like this one and, wanting to attend something similar himself, he had copied the model as best he could.

Since the war had ended, it had fallen to Draco to look after the family affairs. The Malfoy name wasn't worth much anymore and, although he wanted nothing more that to just sit in his London flat and slowly consume an entire library's worth of fiction, he knew he had to do something. He owed it to his mother to continue the Malfoy enterprises. She had lied to the Dark Lord to save him, she loved him, and he wanted to make her proud. But he was going to do it his way.

He had gifted some of the Malfoy houses to a muggle organisation called The National Trust. It had several benefits; the trust looked after the houses stopping them falling into disrepair, people were able to come visit the homes and keep them alive and, of course, the Ministry liked to see he was bringing the Malfoy name into a partnership linked with muggles. It helped make his family look repentant (which, for the most part, they were. Lucius less so than Draco and Narcissa but that was just going to be the way he always was).

He had other plans too but he didn't want to get ahead of himself.

Draco had ensured the Malfoy name wasn't directly associated with the houses or the writing retreat in any way. He'd even circulated false histories about all the homes and employed Eleanor to host the retreats; he wanted to make it all a success, he wanted to try and escape the prejudice of his name and wanted to be realised for the man he was trying to become.

He turned around and watched Ginny march herself up to the house. Her long coppery hair catching in the weak autumn sunshine. As he turned back to Eleanor he found himself wondering how he'd never quite noticed how blue the Weasley eyes were before.

—

The first day passed without much incident. It seemed Draco Malfoy was here in the same capacity as Ginny; to learn about how to be a writer. He spoke up a little in group discussions but mostly sat on the sidelines, making notes and watching everyone else. He was like a cat stalking his prey, slow and deliberate.

Ginny wished she had similar powers of restraint but she couldn't help but become entangled in debates and discussions. She felt at home here. She was amongst like minded people who had genuinely strong opinions on literature and narratives and authors. Hermione gave her some good conversations but she preferred non-fiction and Ginny lived for the make-believe of a good novel.

Draco watched as Ginny went from wary and scared to confident and passionate. Her cheeks would turn pink as she argued her points and her nose scrunch up as she listened to opinions she disagreed with. He found himself, despite his better judgement, interested to know more about her. To read her writing, to know what she read, to discover how she ticked. She, however, had avoided his eye for the entirety of the first day. Even when they'd bumped into one another in the dining room, she scrambled away so quickly you'd think he'd emitted a stinging jinx.

The second day, however, was a little different.

"Right, troops, today we have the wonderful Esmerelda Schmitt with us. You may have read her most recent book The Orangery? And, if you haven't, you should! It's brilliant."

A petite brunette walked into the room. She was covered in silver jewellery and spoke in a soft Irish accent. She was only in her early thirties but had written four books already and was well on her way to a fifth. She was there to take them through the process of getting your first book published and the merits of also finding a muggle publishing house as well as magical (much like the woman who'd released the seven biographies of Harry's life…seven, honestly, the man was going to get a big head).

Esmerelda was telling them about how she used to write about memories to enhance her skill as an author. She'd try to picture the memory, the smells and sounds, the light and the shadows. It helped her to create a fuller picture and thus would help a reader connect with the tale she was telling.

They were all asked to take an hour and to write up a memory. Something big or something small. They would share at the end of the class what they'd written. It would be the first time they'd allowed their peers to hear a snippet of their writing.

Ginny took herself off to the drawing room. It faced the rolling green hills of Acorn Bank's grounds and it reminded her of Dent, of her little haven. She hoped it would help the words to come. She wondered what to pick, what memory would be good enough, what would be inspiring and allow her to show off the extent of her skills?

Initially she thought of something dark, something from the war. Then of something wonderful, sunny and warm. And then it came to her: Her favourite memory was something she'd actually lived through many times. It was a happy but not a stand out moment. Just a snapshot. Just those ten minutes of lying in her bed at the Burrow on a Sunday morning before she got up. The house just beginning to wake up, her mother firing up the stove, her brothers snoring or slowly stirring. Her father already out in the shed and tinkering with his muggle toys. The breeze would come in through her always-open window, tickling her feet which were poking out of the duvet.

It was peaceful. This was her feeling of safety and security.

Once she had it in her mind, once she could almost smell her old bedroom at the Burrow, Ginny began to write.

Draco entered the drawing room, desperate to find a peaceful spot to try and complete this task. Whilst he wanted to learn, the idea of sharing something this personal almost sent his anxiety to the moon. He couldn't even think around the scrabbling of six other quills.

Ginny hadn't noticed Draco walking into the room. She was bent over the desk and writing feverishly onto her parchment. He froze for a moment and watched her work. She looked quite remarkable sat there, thinking and creating, and he knew he should leave but he couldn't quite bring himself to. She really did intrigue him. But then, she'd always intrigued him — not in an all consuming sort of way, but in a passing throwaway thought kind of way — because she was a real survivor.

The Chamber of Secrets, the rebellions against Umbridge and leading some sort of resistance with Longbottom once Potter and his pals had left Hogwarts to save the world. She was strong and fierce and smart. And she was here, of all places, instead of working for the Ministry or St Mungos.

He coughed quietly, announcing his presence.

"Malfoy?" she looked up, her nose was dappled with drops of ink adding to her smattering of freckles. She almost looked annoyed.

"Do you mind if I work here too?"

Ginny cocked her head to the side. In all honesty she did mind but he seemed so polite and open and so unlike the Malfoy she'd heard her brother speak of that she almost felt guilty telling him so.

"Go ahead…it's not really for me to say no, is it?"

"No, I suppose not."

The awkward silence stretched out a little before Ginny, not knowing what more to say, crouched back down over her work and continued. She was a little more subdued now in her writing though, a little more self-conscious.

Both were acutely aware of one another. The air seemed to crackle.

Draco sat on the chaise lounge, stretched his long legs out before him and began to busy himself with trying to think of a memory suitable enough for this task. He'd spent enough time writing about bad memories for his Head Healer, he wanted something better this time.

When the hour was up a bell chimed in the distance. It was time for them to return to the classroom. Reluctantly Ginny put down her quill; she had been titivating and editing for the last ten minutes. She didn't want to overthink it all this much but it was hard when she was about to share her writing, her voice, in front of peers and professionals.

Draco stood but, before he could say anything, Ginny had swept from the room. She was a cloud of uncontrollable hair and long limbs.

—

"Right, are we all comfortable sharing our memories for the class?"

A murmuring of yeses echoed around the room. Ginny had folded herself up in pale blue armchair by the window and Draco had taken a seat adjacent to her. She could feel his eyes on her again; he was always watching.

The first witch to volunteer to read her work aloud was a middle-aged woman with wiry blonde curls. She looked like a frumpier Rita Skeeter. In fact, it was entirely possible she'd modelled herself on the Daily Prophet reporter as Ginny noticed she also had an acid green quill tucked behind her ear. Thankfully she didn't seem to have adopted her personality.

Her memory was a happy one. It was fairly well written and the group applauded politely. Esmerelda offered feedback and they moved on.

Ginny read hers out after another two people had shared theirs. It was well received and Eleanor had smiled warmly as she spoke. Esmerelda offered positive feedback but had picked up on the fact Ginny had over-worked the piece. She took it on the chin but, really, did they know how hard it was to string words together so that it made some sort of sense?! Well, Ginny acquiesced that the published author probably did know that.

"Trust your gut a little and try not to fiddle and fuss over each sentence for too long. Find someone you trust - a partner or friend - and ask them to be your proofreader in lieu of having an editor. Ask them to read through what you've written and, whilst they won't be an expert, it will give you some indication of how your work is reading. Thank you, Ginny."

And, just like that, it was done. The class had moved onto John McRae who was already delivering his piece in that wonderful Scottish baritone he had.

Ginny felt herself unclench. That hadn't been so bad. She hadn't even realised how nervous she'd felt, how worried that they might all turn and laugh at her at her attempt. How Draco Malfoy who, to the best of her knowledge, never showed anything but mockery and derision may laugh in her face for being a poor old Weasley who never quite got anything right.

He hadn't smirked though, or turned his nose up. He'd just listened to her and applauded with everyone else.

It was finally Draco's turn. He swallowed hard, his mouth and throat feeling as though they were full of sand. Ginny turned in her chair to face him. It was the first time she allowed herself to properly observe him, without him looking directly back at her. He looked a little less composed than usual, with pink spots appearing on his high cheekbones. His floppy hair was no longer perfectly coiffed but seemed a touch haphazard, as though he'd ran his fingers through it a few too many times.

Draco Malfoy was nervous; he knew his talents lay more in the reading and recognising of great literature than the writing of it. He knew just by being here at this retreat he'd be stretching himself.

He began to read from his slip of parchment. He was talking about his mother. One of his earliest memories of watching her apply her make-up and spritz on perfume before she left the house for a party of some sort. It was a kind of bittersweet memory; a young child excited by all the pageantry, happy his mother seemed so content and in her element and yet terribly sad that he would be left with Nanny again. That it wouldn't be his mother tucking him in that night and reading the end of their book with him.

There was a real, raw quality to it.

Once he'd finished, he looked over to see Ginny wiping a tear away from her cheek.

"Beautiful, Draco, really lovely…"

Ginny stopped listening to Esmerelda's response. She wasn't really sure why the short tale had touched her so much. It wasn't so much the words, she didn't think, but the candidness of what he said and the way he delivered it. Draco Malfoy should have had a job performing books on the wireless, he'd have thousands of people all over the country swooning and laughing and crying each week.

She hadn't wanted him to see her tears. She avoided his gaze for the rest of the weekend.

—

On the final day of the retreat, everyone was permitted to submit a short story which would be sent onto the publishers they'd spent that last morning with. Nervous, and without too much hope, Ginny submitted hers to all four. Perhaps she should have been more picky, selecting only those which were a good fit for her, but she was desperate to get in front of as many people as possible. You just never knew what people were going to take a shine to.

Draco applied to none of the publishers. These three short days had been enough to make him realise that, whilst he loved novels and stories and writing, he was not an author. Instead he began to make plans for the future, for the next Malfoy enterprise. He would need to seek a bit of advice - he was only twenty years of age, after all - but Draco thought that a publishing house would suit the Malfoy portfolio quite nicely.

—

That evening, before everyone returned to their normal lives, they shared a drink in the beautiful pink parlour. All attendees, Eleanor and Aggy stood in front of the beautiful fireplace and raised their champagne flutes to one another.

"Thank you to all of you," Eleanor's voice was warm and kind, "for making this a truly wonderful event! The first of many!"

The first of many! Echoed around the circle.

After finishing her glass of champagne, Ginny began to say her goodbyes. She was hoping to apparate down to her parents that evening and fill them in on the events of the weekend. She was in the darkening entrance hall, bending over to tighten the laces on her boots and, when she stood back up, Draco had appeared in front of her holding out her jacket.

Reluctantly she turned around and slid herself into the proffered coat. He smelt of a spicy, earthy, cologne.

"It was nice to almost meet you, Ginny Weasley. I hope it happens again one day."

She turned to face him. He was so close she could've counted each one of his blond eyelashes.

Draco didn't know why he'd followed her out, didn't know why he had felt the need to reach out to her. They'd exchanged perhaps a couple of dozen words all weekend and she'd barely looked at him in last twenty-four hours.

Maybe it was the strangeness of them both being here, or the odd thought that a Malfoy and Weasley clearly could have a lot in common after all, or it could have been the way her eyes lit up when verbally sparring with someone, the way her cheeks flushed whenever she felt anger or mirth.

Whatever the cause, he was sort of enjoying the effect.

Feeling slightly hypnotised by him, Ginny reached up and gently pushed his hair away from his forehead. The moment hung there, suspended for a few second and then…bright yellow light fell out of an open door and someone came into the hallway. They both sprung apart as though burned.

Relieved, and a little disappointed, Ginny span around without saying a word and left the house.

—

_"Books are a uniquely portable magic." _

_― Stephen King_

**The middle.**

Ginny never heard from any of the four publishers she submitted her story to. She received short, perfunctory responses which left her devastated for at least a week. In her heart, she had known that, that would be the case but she'd still allowed herself to hope and was utterly devastated with her first set of rejections.

Two years on and she was getting more and more used to them by the week. That's not to say she hadn't had some successes — she had won four short story competitions across the UK and was now writing for Witch Weekly once a month. She was given 1500 words to play with and could write from any genre she desired. It was good practice, it was making her stretch her creative muscles a little and find her feet. She liked to write to crime and bittersweet romances with a sting in the tail. Occasionally she had to throw in a sappy love story too, just to keep the readers sweet.

Ginny was still living in Dent, although found herself a little more frequently in London or Edinburgh for meetings with publishers, and was still working part time for the bookshop in York. She hadn't attended another retreat since learning there were being run by Malfoy and his family business. Although that didn't seem to stop other people from attending, however, and they now held three a year. She hadn't seen Draco since that night; when she looked back on it she still felt her cheeks redden. What had she been thinking?

She sometimes let her mind wander, let herself imagine where that moment might have gone if someone hadn't come and interrupted them. She knew it was daft, that she barely knew the man and was certain she wouldn't like him much even if she did get to know him. So what if he loved literature, was miraculously taller than her and wore cologne that smelt so good she could still remember wanting nothing more than to just touch him, hold him, after she'd smelt it? He had been a Death Eater, had been on the wrong side of the war. Not that, in all honesty, she'd really hold that against him anymore; he'd been young, had the almighty pressure of Voldemort living in his family home. He was a Malfoy; his fate had been sealed from the moment he was born. Just as hers had as a Weasley. And he did seem to be trying to make amends.

A loud tapping at her kitchen window broke Ginny out of her reverie. A large tawny owl was carrying a bundle of letters. Opening the windows she allowed the bird to fly in. It dumped the letters on the kitchen table, narrowly avoiding the vase of daffodils, ruffled it's feathers and flew back out again. Professional owl. She was about to shut the window when she noticed another two owls swooping into her little garden. What in the name of Merlin's beard…

She stepped aside and the two birds dropped a letter each on the table before flapping off again. Miraculously a fourth owl appeared no sooner had the second and third ones departed. Then another. And another.

She had to be careful, the neighbours were sure to notice six bloody owls zooming in and out of her cottage. Once five minutes had passed and there was no signs of another bird falling from the sky to bring her mail, she shut the kitchen window and went to rummage through her pile of letters.

The first bundle of papers were tied up with string and a little note that had been written on Witch Weekly notepaper;

_Ginny,_

_One, Two, Three has had the readers going crazy! Have sent on a selection of the letters but happy to organise the rest be dropped off to you via floo later, if you like? Haven't seen a response like this since the Gilderoy Lockhart days — well done you!_

_Teresa xx_

One, Two, Three was the short story Ginny had submitted for the most recent issue of Witch Weekly. She had loved writing it; a dark murder mystery with mixture of both muggle and magic in it. It had, had the scope to be a bigger story - a novel even. She couldn't believe it had been so well received.

She turned to the bundle of letters that had been sent by her lovely editor.

_Brilliant read - can't wait for you to bring out a full length novel!_

_Absolutely love your stories, Ginny, but this one really took the cauldron cake - AMAZING!_

_Best thing about Witch Weekly is your writing, Miss Weasley. All the best for future endeavours._

She needed some to come along and give her a really good pinch. This wasn't happening.

Ginny picked up the letters sent by the other owls. They looked quite official in their thick, embossed envelopes.

_Dear Miss Weasley,_

_I am writing to you from Crabapple Publishing. We read your latest entry in Witch Weekly and would be interested in securing a meeting with you to discuss the commissioning of an extended version of this story. _

_Please do let us know your availability at your earliest convenience. _

_All the best,_

_Stanley Thropp_

_Hi Ginny,_

_This is Amelia from Pelican Publishing…_

_Morning Miss Weasley,_

_Sphere would be very interested in…_

_Ginny,_

_Senior editor at Lime + Pepper publishing house here…_

She felt like her head may explode. After two years of desperately trying to get a publisher to take her seriously it had happened whilst she sat in her tiny kitchen wearing ugly brown slippers and an old Weird Sisters t-shirt.

She didn't know what to do first; cry? Scream? Laugh? She settled for something between all three of them.

—

"Draco?"

His junior editor popped her head around his office door. Thankfully she'd finally stopped calling him Mr Malfoy. It had made him skittish, made him look nervously around as though his father had materialised by his side.

"Yes?"

"You asked me to keep an eye on the short story writers in the magazines and I think Ginny Weasley has come up with something really brilliant. My friend who works over at Pelican said they were planning on reaching out to her about it. I didn't know if you wanted me to get an owl over to her too?"

Draco looked at her for a moment but he wasn't really seeing her. He was picturing a tall, almost gangly, redhead looking up at him in muted light. He had followed her work, of course, and had read that mornings Witch Weekly the moment it fell on his desk. He never missed her issue. Ginny wasn't someone he thought about all the time as such, she was just a kind of spare moment thought every once in a while (or at least once a month when he read her work). Had it really only been two years since he'd seen her last? It felt as though a lifetime had passed. He had grown so much; he'd not quite got the arrogant swagger of his youth but his confidence had certainly bloomed in that time. He knew what he wanted and where he was going.

Serpent Press had been up and running for eight months. It was in the early stages but he felt he had some promising authors signed up and a great staff of five talented witches and wizards. They were based in Stoke Newington a, shockingly, leafy and quaint area of London that had a sort of village feel to it.

Narcissa and Lucius weren't particularly surprised when Draco announced his plans for a business venture into publishing. There son had always loved his books. And, whilst they didn't strictly approve of the direction Draco had taken some of the family ventures - mixing with muggle businesses, for example - they did admire his drive and his resourceful nature. He had worked hard to give them a bit more standing in the community again; Lucius would never be accepted in polite society, and he spent most his time up in their home in Perth, but Narcissa was starting to see glimmers of her old life. She had been invited to a Ministry event and was even applying to be on the St Mungos fundraising board again.

"So…Ginny Weasley? Shall I send her a note?"

"Yes. Please do. I'd like to see her."

"Great, I'll get right on it."

—

Ginny had floo'd her parents and Ron to tell them the news. Whilst nothing was definite yet, she intended to use this stroke of luck to the best of her abilities.

Witch Weekly had sent over a box of lovely letters that made her heart sing and another publisher had gotten in touch. A small, indie one that she hadn't really heard of before called Serpent Press. Apparently they hadn't even been in business a year yet but were planning to take the book world by storm this coming autumn with their first releases.

She had written back to all of the publishers saying she would love to hear more from them and began putting together a schedule of meetings. She'd asked Hermione if she would come along with her; Hermione worked for the Ministry and helped create the laws and rules across several different departments. She had a cool head for logic and business and Ginny needed someone like that by her side.

—

Draco reread _One, Two, Three_ for the fifth time. It really was very good. He knew his publishers had very little to offer her and, primarily, she may not wish to work alongside him but he hoped she picked them. Picked him.

Listening to his contacts in other publishers, Ginny had been making the rounds. It seemed everyone was interested in acquiring her first novel. She had been dragging Hermione Granger around at most of her meetings and he was concerned that this may prejudice her further about coming to work with him. He and Granger weren't exactly the best of friends.

The meeting was set for tomorrow but…maybe, just maybe, he could pay her a visit this evening and catch her alone. He had gotten her address from when she signed up to the writers retreat, he just had to hope she hadn't moved since then.

—

Draco apparated into the designated safe area for magical activity in Dent and found himself walking along the cobbled, higgledy piggledy streets in search of number 32. Ginny Weasley's home (he hoped). It was already getting dark when he spotted the little white cottage with it's front garden full of wild flowers. She had just a lamp on in her living room and it was creating a very cosy image with golden light flooding out into the night. He could see her sat on the sofa, long legs tucked beneath her, furiously scribbling away in a red notebook.

She paused and tilted a glass of red wine to her lips before continuing to write. She seemed different from that night two years ago. She had grown into her frame, looking more elegant and less gawky. Of course, she was currently very relaxed and unaware she was, once again, under the scrutinising gaze of Draco Malfoy. He had thought it just because she had surprised him that weekend by being there that he'd been so intrigued by her but now he wasn't so sure. Draco was inextricably drawn to the curtain of red hair, the large curious eyes and her passion for writing and creating.

He took a deep breath and walked up to her front door. He knocked and waited.

"One minute!" Ginny called from inside the house as she frantically scrambled about looking for her keys.

The heavy old door swung open and revealed that it was Draco Malfoy who was stood on her doorstep. He was wearing a smart navy coat and his hair was shorter than it had been two years ago.

"Hi, Ginny. Can I come in?"

The redhead took a moment to process the situation - this week just got stranger and stranger - before stepping aside to allow Draco access to the cottage. He had to stoop as he walked through the door to her living room, his 6'4" frame was just too tall for sixteenth century architecture.

She watched him move about in her space for a moment before seeming to come to her senses.

"Can I help you with something, Malfoy?"

"You can call me Draco, you know."

"That still doesn't quite answer the question…Draco."

The name, which she did call him in her own mind, sounded so alien once said aloud. He looked a little flustered.

"I work, or rather, I own Serpent Press —"

"Oh! Well, I was supposed to come and see you tomorrow -"

"Yes, I know. I know. But…I wanted to see you first. I wanted to let you know it was me behind the company. I didn't want that to shock you or make you run away…" again. Didn't want to make you run away from me again.

The conversation had been fast, overlapping, like nervous gunfire. The words left unspoken hung in the air for a few beats, like coils of smoke.

Ginny sighed.

"I'd like to say that's crazy and that I wouldn't have done that but…the truth is I may have. Run, that is."

"And now?" He looked up at her hopefully.

"Well. We'll see," she felt full of nervous energy, "do you want to come to the pub?"

She'd felt a little uncomfortable having him there in her home, in her personal space, particularly when she was just dressed in her pyjamas. And his cologne was still the same spicy scent and it was so intoxicating she almost couldn't bear it.

He seemed slightly caught unawares by the question but recovered quickly, "that would be great."

Frankly he was pleased he hadn't just been told to get lost.

Ginny dashed upstairs to get changed. She pulled on tight black skinny jeans and an oversized black shirt. A quick ruffle of her hair, a spritz of perfume and she was ready to go.

—

Patsy behind the bar gave Ginny a huge, pantomime wink when she saw her walk in with Draco. She'd have a lot of questions to answer next time she ventured into the village shop. Dent gossips would be out in full force.

Somehow they managed to wrangle two of the best seats by the fire and Ginny went to the bar to buy a bottle of wine. Draco had offered but he had no muggle money on him and she thought the villagers may become a tad suspicious if he tried to pay them with fat gold galleons.

—

The wine was good. In fact, it was far better than Draco had thought it would be from this slightly rundown village pub. It was full of local folks, a few walkers and tourists and the odd mangy looking dog. People greeted Ginny as they walked past, she was clearly a favourite amongst the village.

"I come here a lot when I need inspiration" she revealed.

Draco raised his eyebrow and gestured to the bottle of wine.

"Oh, no!" Ginny laughed, "it's the people. It's the life here. They inspire me. Although the odd glass does help sometimes too."

Her cheeks were flushed, she was really very charming once you got her talking. Draco too was more relaxed, more open, than Ginny had ever allowed herself to believe possible.

"Why did you never try to go into writing? Why publishing instead?"

"It wasn't for me. I love to write and I think I'll always keep some form of project on the go but, I like reading. I like discovering new talent. And I'm good at it. I also needed to find a new direction for the Malfoy enterprises."

"Well, you did request a meeting with me so I'd say your talent radar is 10/10…" the wine had started to take effect. She felt a little lightheaded and more lighthearted than she had in months. She hadn't realised how tightly wound she'd been, desperate to be successful, constantly writing and reaching out to publishers and magazines.

"It was a great piece, you know. Honestly it was. They've all been good but this one… you really touched something in this one."

She looked down into her lap, she was unused to receiving this kind of praise and she had definitely not expected it to come from Draco Malfoy.

"Thank you. It's been a big week. I honestly didn't expect any of this, I half wondered if anyone read my segments at all or if they just skipped right onto how snag the man you want articles."

"Hey, that's important stuff too. I'm always wondering how to snag the men I want…"

He let it hang there for a moment before they both burst out laughing.

A sly grin crossed her lips.

"So, you've been following my work?"

He'd hoped she was going to let that lie, hoped she'd ignore the fact he admitted to reading and remembering her previous works.

It was a strange, silly, intense evening where they spoke about nothing and everything. An evening of not knowing if they were becoming friends, colleagues, lovers or absolutely nothing at all. Would they go back to their normal lives in the morning and put this away in the back of their minds? Would they chalk it up to just another odd experience shared between Ginevra Weasley and Draco Malfoy?

—

"Come on, you two, it's closing time. Out with you."

Patsy was taking no prisoners this evening. She had watched Ginny and the handsome blond man put away three bottles of wine between them and, even if she wasn't closing for the night, she'd have cut them off by now anyway. Nothing good could come of serving them a fourth bottle.

Ginny looked up at the matronly landlady as she started to clear away their empty wine glasses.

"Fine, we're leaving, Patsy. We promise."

Draco stood up first and swayed a little. He didn't drink very often, and definitely not to excess, the wine had gone right to his knees. Ginny was a little sturdier but not by much. They swayed their way around the tables and chairs to the exit. Once outside the pub the cold air hit them like a pail of water and they seemed to come to their senses a little.

Ginny was staring up into the sky. Draco followed her gaze, the stars were so bright up here. You could barely see the night sky in London. It was never dark enough and too polluted. He took a deep breath and coupled her arm in his, starting to walk her home.

"Did you mean to get me stonking drunk this evening, Miss Weasley?" his tone was conversational, a little teasing.

"You caught me, I wrote a story I knew would lure you in, that would make you come find me in my teensy village in the Yorkshire Dales and then I planned to get you blind bloody drunk."

"I knew it. You're terrible wee flirt."

"What can I say? Those snagging a man articles really do work. I thought it seemed far-fetched but…hey, who am I to argue with Rosie Montague. She knows her stuff."

Before they knew it they were at her front gate. The atmosphere seemed to shift; it was suddenly charged and she had force herself to make eye contact with him. She felt…almost bashful.

"I'd like to offer you to come stay but…"

"— and, honestly, I would really, really love to accept but I do want to work with you, Ginny." He seemed to sober up extraordinarily fast, "or at least I want a fair shot at it. And, if you don't go with us…perhaps we can revisit this almost proposal."

Ginny smiled up at him, her eyes were full of lust and wine and mischief.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Draco."

He leant down and kissed her on the cheek, lingering for just a beat longer than necessary, taking in the light floral scent of her perfume.

"Goodnight, Ginevra."

—

_"There is no greater power on this earth than story."_

_— Libba Bray_

**The end.**

Ginny didn't publish her first book with Serpent Press.

She did, however, take Draco up on his invitation of dinner.

And drinks. And dancing.

He accompanied her as she trawled the UK for secondhand bookshops, carrying her purchases no matter how many enormous hardbacks she'd had to have.

And, after a few dates, he finally took her up on the offer to stay the night.

It had been worth the wait. It was bliss. Exciting and tender all at once.

Soon Dent became as much his home as it was hers, they only stayed in London occasionally, for a change of scene, but both loved the little village surrounded by mountains and fields.

It took Draco months to find the courage to accompany her to Sunday lunch at The Burrow and, afterwards, he wondered what he'd been so scared of. Mistrustful initially - understandably - but the Weasleys were warm and welcoming and brash and loud. He especially liked George who, despite the loss of his twin brother, seemed to be striving to succeed enough for the both of them.

Her second book Ginny did allow Draco to publish. It went straight to the top of the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly awards lists. She won her Golden Quill.

After they'd been together for four years, Draco proposed and Ginny said yes. They had a small wedding; family and close friends only.

Sometime later, after Ginny had published her fifth book (they never mentioned the fourth book. It didn't do well and she wasn't proud of it), Draco picked up his quill again and began to write once more.

He wasn't quite as polished as his wife but it was good and Serpent Press did a small run of it (the beauty of owning your own publishing house). He didn't care if no one bought it, really, he just wanted to try. Just wanted to have the pleasure of seeing his name up there on his bookshelves along with some of his favourite authors.

Once their thoughts turned to starting their own family they moved up to Acorn Bank. They still kept it open for the public at certain times of the day but it felt right they should live there.

It was a significant part of their story, of who they became. And, of course, it was where they first properly (almost) met.

—

I wrote this for last years DG Fic Exchange and, yes, it's taken me a year to getting around to posting it on my own account. Oops.

I wasn't 100% happy with this effort at the time, thinking I would probably want to make it longer, but as I've been tinkering with it I've found the format sort of works and doesn't quite fit into a super long story because I wasn't foreseeing lots of ups and downs for them once they got together other than the ordinary relationship bits and bobs. The interest was how they (almost) first met as adults and discovering who they are now they're out of Hogwarts and out from their family's and school house expectations.

Prompt was below:

**Eustacia Vye's Prompt (#3)**

**Basic premise:** Author!Ginny doing research for her next novel. (plot within the plot is all up to you, dear writer. I know it's hard enough coming up with plots in the first place...)

**Must haves:** "Do you know how hard it is to string words together so that they make sense? Do you? No, you don't!" (Okay to paraphrase depending on your story!)

**No-no's:** No Harry/Ginny. Like, EVER. I happily ignore that in canon, please and thank you. My usual do not wants include cheating, scat, watersports, mpreg, noncon (mentioned tangentially is okay, but not explicitly described in fic please) and victim blaming.

**Rating range:** Go wherever the muse takes you! I'm a-okay with smut, and it's perfectly allowed on AO3, where I usually hang out. :)

**Bonus points:** I wouldn't mind if Draco was her editor or a competing novelist.


End file.
